


Cold Feet, Warm Bum

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Smut, handjob, pyjama sex, sherlock hates anything new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes, just not his cold feet and icy bum, so he takes steps to remedy the situation which may or may not be to the detective's liking...





	Cold Feet, Warm Bum

“ _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”_ John screeched as he leapt out of the tangled covers, virtually exploding out of the warmth and comfort of his and Sherlock’s shared bed.

 

Sherlock, lying on his side, facing the wall, barely even turned his head at the sound. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, John. They’re not _that_ cold.”

 

John was vigorously rubbing his calves at the side of the bed. “So _you_ say, Mr. Icicles-For-Feet, but this isn’t the first time you’ve done this to me, and I’ve had enough. Either you start wearing socks to bed or I’m sleeping upstairs.”

 

Sherlock snorted in disbelief. “Of _course_ you will, John.” He snuggled down into the comforter, wriggling his hips in emphasis. “Now, will you please come back to bed? You left the covers open and my bum is getting cold.”

 

“Hmmph,” John retorted. “And that’s another thing—your bum is as cold as the Southern Regions.”

 

“Appropriate _and_ descriptive. Bravo, John. _Now please shut up and come back to bed_. I’m cold.”

 

“Frigid bastard,” John griped as he clambered back beneath the comforter and drew it up tightly around his neck.

 

“Not what you said laaast niiiight,” Sherlock sang back.

 

John grumphed and settled back in. A moment or two later, he had an armful of Sherlock nestled against him.

 

“Is this side of me warmer?” he mumbled, affectionately nuzzling his husband of only six months.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, better.”

 

“Good.”

 

A couple of minutes later…

 

“AAAGH! YOU BASTARD! WHAT ARE YOU, A FUCKING PENGUIN?”

 

Sherlock chuckled to himself. Revenge is a dish best served with cold feet.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“What are these, John?” Sherlock asked dubiously. He was holding a pair of pyjama bottoms in the air in front of him, held only by thumbs and forefingers

 

John looked up from his paper. “I think that’s rather obvious, don’t you?” he replied, blandly.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes expressively, finally favoring his husband with a _look_. John finally relented. “Okay, they’re pyjamas.”

 

“ _Footie_ pyjamas, to be precise, John,” Sherlock pointed out while shaking them at John. “What am I, a child?”

 

“Well, now that you mention it…”

 

“No!” Sherlock declared. He threw the bottoms onto his chair, where he had found the shopping bag in which they had been contained. “I won’t wear them, so you can just take them right back…”

 

John folded back his paper and girded his loins for a fight. “Look, you can wear them tonight and every night thereafter that your feet are freezing or you can sleep alone. I’m tired of having freezer burn on my legs every morning.”

 

Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted. John stood his ground, although the sight of the Terror of Scotland Yard sulking like a toddler was just too precious…

 

John turned back to his paper, suppressing an unexpectedly indulgent smile. _Blast the man, anyway, for being so adorable sometimes_.

 

A sigh was heaved like a heavy weight, which John recognized as Sherlock’s “Oh, very well” reaction as he picked up the pyjama bottoms again. “Well, I suppose I could try them once.”

 

John nodded nonchalantly. “A wise decision, love.”

 

He looked up in time to see Sherlock stripping off his dressing gown, followed by the ratty pyjamas that he had been lounging around in all day. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of the tall, slender detective’s fine figure, exposed for all to see. One interesting thing about Sherlock, he seemed to be oblivious to his own attractiveness, unless he was using it for a purpose. Not an ounce of body consciousness in the man. Mrs. Hudson could have walked through the door and Sherlock would have wondered why she screamed.

 

John watched, fascinated as Sherlock donned the top, wrestling it down over well-formed shoulders and over his still-scarred back, his souvenir from Serbia. He consciously turned his mind away from that sullen memory to admire Sherlock’s movements, the way he writhed like an exotic dancer when he dressed. And, of course, the lower view was more than lovely. John could feel himself responding to the way Sherlock’s “twig and berries” swung as he moved. And that arse…sonnets could be written about that bum. _Whoa, slow down there, Watson, that way lies danger_ …which, of course, only increased his incipient boner.

 

Sherlock finally picked up the pyjama bottoms and, still looking dubious, slid his long, sinuous legs into them, doing a little jig with his hips, similar to his “telephone shimmy” that always so amused John. As he settled them into place, John admired the way they fit. Fortunately for Sherlock, they were very stretchy, as well as plush, to accommodate his height. Expensive, too—nothing but the best for Sherlock, or he would have used them in his next experiment.

 

“Hmm. They fit well and are surprisingly comfortable,” the detective conceded. With a dramatic motion, he swung his dressing gown around his shoulders before inserting his arms, letting it settle around him like a swashbuckler’s cape.

 

_Drama Queen…_

 

“Well?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “They’re…all right. Warm, I must admit.” He wiggled his toes inside the feet. “Quite toasty, in fact. Perhaps your idea has merit, John.”

 

John smiled lopsidedly. That was quite a concession from a man stubborn enough to stop glaciers from moving. He turned back to his paper, glancing up again to see his husband relaxed and seemingly contented, reading a book, still wiggling his long, plush-covered toes.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Bedtime would be the real test, John knew.

 

Sherlock, in cooler weather, usually preferred to sleep in his threadbare pyjamas, worn inside-out to protect his sensitive skin from irritation. John marveled, sometimes, at how sensitive Sherlock’s skin could be, especially during sex. He had always thought Sherlock dressed in expensive clothing because he liked to be “posh”, but the clothing was much easier to wear without irritation than anything off-the-rack, and was tailored to fit. Sherlock once had to dress in “prêt-a-porter” clothes and John had had to listen to him grouse about how scratchy and uncomfortable they were for days after.

 

After they had “gotten together”, Sherlock had made an honest effort to go to bed earlier than was his wont in order to cuddle up with John. This had had mixed results. John had finally told him that he didn’t have to change his habits just because they were sleeping together, with the result that Sherlock reverted to staying up late and playing the violin so John could fall asleep, then engaging in whatever struck his fancy until he felt tired, at which point he would join John in bed.

 

That’s when the problems had started.

 

Sherlock refused to change his habit of walking around the flat bare-footed, resulting in a set of icy feet being jammed against John’s legs or, even worse, his thighs or bum, after John had fallen asleep. It was a rude awakening, making him feel rather like the Titanic to Sherlock’s iceberg.

 

Hence the pyjamas.

 

John had actually been surprised at how Sherlock had grown accustomed to them so quickly. Usually, there would be quite a bit of griping going on, usually for hours, with the introduction of something new. Sherlock’s quick mind reveled in the new, the interesting, the exotic…except when it came to his home life. There, change was unwelcome. New people, new smells, new sounds---all had to run through a vetting period, as far as Sherlock was concerned, so John had reason to be skeptical about this one.

 

After falling asleep to a selection of his favorite classical melodies, John half-heard, half-felt Sherlock crawl into bed later that night. He unconsciously braced himself…

 

Nothing.

 

No cold feet. No icy bum.

 

He shot a look over his shoulder. Sherlock was lying on his side, facing the wall, coverlet pulled up to his waist, not up around his neck as if he was freezing. He half-smiled in satisfaction. _Good_.

 

“Warm enough for you, love?” he ventured.

 

Sherlock grunted in assent and re-settled himself.

 

Quiet fell over the bedroom yet, strangely, John was having problems falling back to sleep again. He tried not moving around, in order to not wake his husband, but felt strangely…bereft. He hadn’t realized, before now, how much he really missed Sherlock’s cuddling, cold feet and all. He looked again. Sherlock seemed very satisfied with his current lot in life and was breathing slowly and steadily.

 

He hesitated. Should he approach Sherlock, or would the lanky detective rebuff his attempts? After all, if it was just a warmth thing, something Sherlock did for his own purposes, then he just _might_ brush him off, brusquely. John would _hate_ that. He knew how mercurial Sherlock’s moods could be.

 

The longer he lay there, alone, the more he missed Sherlock’s company next to him, in his arms. The distance between them in the king-sized bed seemed endless, with Sherlock making no move toward him at all.

 

“Um, Sherlock?” John ventured.

 

“Mmmph,” came the response. He didn’t move.

 

John paused, uncertain. He wasn’t sure he was up for a prickly rejection.

 

“Would…would you mind if I, um, came over there? This side of the bed is really boring without you.”

 

Sherlock’s shoulders shook minutely and John could detect a low, rumbly laugh. “Of course, John. Missing me already?”

 

“Yeah. I really am, even with your icy parts. Can I…?”

 

In answer, Sherlock lifted the covers behind him. John slid in right, ready to conform himself to Sherlock’s back, bum, and legs. He braced for the chill of an icy arse…and was pleasantly surprised to find it warm, firm, and definitely appealing. Same for his feet. John sighed in relief and snuggled up.

 

He felt himself start to drift gently off to sleep, curled up next to his husband, who had wrapped his arms around John’s arms in front and nestled back into his husband with a sigh.

 

Bad move.

 

John’s eyes popped open as he felt Sherlock’s plush bum press back into his hips with a little wiggle, resulting in a sudden bloom inside John’s _own_ bottoms. The head of his cock popped out and reacted positively to the feel of this familiar shape and movement, newly-enhanced by a toasty plushness. Military cock as it was, it drew up straight to attention, causing John to groan in frustration and just a little bit of lust.

 

Actually, a lot of lust.

 

John listened to Sherlock’s breathing pattern and decided he was asleep. Softly, and ever-so-gently, he began to rock his hips against the crease of Sherlock’s buttocks, marveling at the enhanced feel of it. More heat, more friction…he shimmied his bottoms down his hips to free his straining cock, allowing it full run of Sherlock’s rump. Slow and easy, thrust and withdrawal, he rocked against the firmest bum he had ever had the honor to hump.

 

_Ohhhh, yeah, God, that’s great, so fucking soft, aaahhhhh baby…_

“You ruin my new pyjamas and you’re on lockdown for a week,” came the stern warning in a familiar baritone.

 

_Shit. Busted._

 

“Jesus, Sherlock…”

 

“Leave him out of this.”

 

“Aw, c’mon. I’m the one who bought them for you…”

 

Sherlock’s head pivoted toward him slightly. “And that gives you the right to plow into my bum in the middle of the night without even a ‘how do you do?’ Rude.”

 

John dropped his head, screwing up his face in aggravation. All he wanted to do at that moment was exactly that—plow madly and with abandon into Sherlock’s bum, coming all over those lovely, soft fleece-covered cheeks.

 

“I’ll wash them for you. Anything I get on them, I’ll wash ‘em.” Slow slide upward…

 

“John…negotiations are not yet finished.”

 

_Crap_.

 

“ _Now_ what? Do we bring Parliament into this?”

 

John could feel Sherlock chuckle deep in his chest. “No need, but did you really plan to pleasure yourself and leave me bereft?” He wiggled his bum in emphasis and John hissed at the pleasurable intensity of that  movement.

 

“Fine, you bastard. How about a hand job, then?”

 

The dark head full of curls nodded. “Very good, John. _Over_ the pyjamas, if you please. I would also like to experience the feel of this fabric over my penis.” He paused, then shrugged. “Consider it an experiment.”

 

“Isn’t everything?” John muttered to himself as he freed his upper hand from Sherlock’s grip and placed it over Sherlock’s already-burgeoning erection. “I see you’ve started without me.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “As if I could sleep with your cock poking into me every few seconds.”

 

John repositioned himself between Sherlock’s butt cheeks and resumed his long slides between them, savoring the feeling, as his hand wound around his husband’s cock, quickly bringing it to full size with only a few strokes. John could feel Sherlock pushing back against his cock behind and into his hand in front, so he synchronized he movements to allow Sherlock to fully participate in his own ravishment. Sherlock moaned softly with each thrust into John’s fist, while John cursed creatively with every thrust into Sherlock’s upholstered bum crack.

 

John felt like his balls were about to burst when Sherlock let out a soft cry and ejaculated into John’s fleece-covered hand. His erratic hip movements brought John to the edge and spilled him over, as he grunted through clenched teeth into Sherlock’s back. They both rode their respective orgasms until they were wrung dry, relaxing suddenly into two heaps of pudding, breathing hard.

 

John gasped, “Shit, that was…good. Really good.”

 

Sherlock’s chest was still heaving. “Better than doing it bare-arsed?” he asked, blandly, but John could hear a tightness in his voice he didn’t like.

 

He kissed Sherlock’s back and said, “Of course not, love, but it makes a nice little interlude, don’t you think?”

 

John could feel that last little bit of tension drain out of his lover’s body. “I suppose so. It was a bit…different. Not better, just…not the same.” A pause, then, “And you’ll be washing them tomorrow morning so they’ll be ready for bedtime. I’ve rather gotten to like them.”

 

Rewrapping his arms around his husband’s chest, John nodded. “Yeah. Me, too, love, me, too.”

 

“And, maybe, we’ll go shopping for another pair. Just in case something happens to these.”

 

John grinned. “If you say so.”


End file.
